Saving Kids With Burritos

I laughed. "Three bucks is enough. You're even getting shrimp and egg."

Rory blinked, stunned. "Seriously?"

I grabbed a few tortillas from the warmer, slapped them on the griddle. "Seriously. Go grab a seat."

He picked a corner spot, rubbing his hands and watching me like I was magic.

As I flipped the tortillas, I glanced over.

The book said his stare "could slice through steel."

But right now? His school uniform hung off his bony frame. Bruises peeked through the fabric, and cigarette burns ringed his wrists.

Kid had clearly been through hell. And still—he trusted a stranger.

If I hadn't read the novel, I never would've guessed this sweet, starving kid was supposed to grow up into some criminal mastermind... a future serial killer.

I tossed a handful of shrimp on the griddle—they curled fast, turning that soft pink.

The tortillas were warm, lightly toasted. I loaded them with shrimp, scrambled egg, and salsa, then threw in extra beef. Kid was way too skinny.

Rolled them up tight, sliced each in half, and hit them with a drizzle of my amber house sauce. The smell kicked in right away.

I set the little mountain of mini burritos in front of him.

His stomach growled loud, but he just sat there, too embarrassed to touch the food. "Ma'am... this is way too much. Are you sure three dollars covers it?"

"Big portions are kinda my thing." I grinned. "If you like it, tell your classmates. Free promo, right? I'm basically saving money."

He hesitated, then handed over his crumpled, sweaty dollar bills.

I took them like it was no big deal.

"Dig in. Gotta eat it hot—cold just doesn't hit the same."

He licked his dry lips and grabbed a plastic fork.

His hands were shaking as he took the first bite.

The second that hot, flavorful burrito hit his mouth, his eyes went red—and the tears just fell.

"Ma'am... it's really good."

My chest tightened. I kept thinking about the boy from the novel—

A drunk, gambling dad. A mom who died way too young. And Rory, left in pieces.

After she passed, his dad got meaner with every bottle. Beat him, cursed him, starved him.

Once in a while, the guy got lucky at cards, tossed Rory some cash to go buy more booze.

Rory would pocket a buck or two each time.

Took him a whole month to save up those three bucks—for one set of mini burritos.

"Take your time. No one's gonna snatch it. If you want more, I've got plenty on the grill."

I kept my tone soft. He wiped his face and kept eating, head down.

I turned back to the grill, already prepping another set.